


Night of the Cactus

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-30
Updated: 2010-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:50:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the weather sucks, the plant life is angry, and sometimes Dean runs off at the mouth</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night of the Cactus

**Author's Note:**

> written for the following prompt from [](http://kate-mct.livejournal.com/profile)[ **kate_mct**](http://kate-mct.livejournal.com/)  for the anniversary h/c comment meme at [](http://community.livejournal.com/ohsam/profile)[ **ohsam**](http://community.livejournal.com/ohsam/):  "Sam/Dean, Sam's having a rotten day (what goes on is up to you) and Dean can't think of anything to say to make him feel any better (maybe they had a fight and Dean said something he shouldn't have) and so cuddles him. Bonus points for comfort sex but not necessary." Originally posted [here](http://community.livejournal.com/ohsam/44339.html?thread=419635#t419635).

  
It’s Minnesota in February, twenty-eight degrees below fucking zero, and Sam’s just been attacked by a cactus.

Dean can see how that might count as unfair.

The cactus, an overgrown, bulbous monstrosity that no-one should have cultivated, even apart from it being cursed and evil, had actually detached itself from its pot and _chased_ Sam, spinning with astonishing speed along the twisty brick paths of the greenhouse until it had him backed into a corner. Then it had launched itself at him like a malignant volleyball.

Dean had come to the rescue, of course he had. He’s an awesome brother. He’d knocked it away with a hastily snatched broom and then stomped on it heroically till it was reduced to spines and pulp. But it’s possible, just possible, when he was helping Sam up from the bank of hopefully non-homicidal ferns where he’d landed, that he’d remembered Sam’s startled shriek as the thing had flown towards him, the flaily gestures with which he’d tried to fend it off, and cracked up. Maybe. A bit. Because, let’s face it, it had been pretty funny.

Sam doesn’t seem inclined to forgive him for that small, hypothetical lapse. He’s glowering as he follows Dean through the heavy glass doors and wrought-iron gates of the greenhouse. The cactus spines must have done a number on the ridiculous, puffy coat he’d picked up at Goodwill, because he’s trailing flurries of down as he walks.

“You look like you’re in your own private snowglobe there, Frosty,” says Dean. Sam glowers. It’s a theme, apparently. Dean claps him on the shoulder, sending up a small blizzard of tiny feathers.

“Attack of the amazing flying cactus left you a little prickly, huh?” he asks. Sam glowers some more. It’s okay, Dean can deal.

“It’s okay, we can deal,” he says. “We’ll just stay away from deserts for a while. And florists. And those Mexican-themed restaurants. And I’ll throw out that Joshua Tree tape of yours. Because I’m an awesome brother. Not like you’re allowed to listen to it, anyway.” Sam glowers all the way to the car.

Weather like this, the Impala takes a while to start, and she needs Dean to coax her along a bit, let her know she’s appreciated. Dean doesn’t have the energy to get her and Sam out of their funks both at once. And he needs his car to get them to coffee. He doesn’t need Sam for that. So he lets his brother slump in his seat, staring morosely out at the frozen park, while he talks the engine into starting and warming up and then taking them to an all-night diner. Even if Sam is having the day of the triffids, pancakes should help.

It’s only when they walk in the door and the waitress does a double-take before waving them towards the remotest booth, though they’re the only customers, that he takes a look at Sam in good light. And he gets where the waitress is coming from, because Sam looks like a plague victim. Some hideous, alien, “he’s dead, Jim” plague. His neck and the side of his face are an angry red spotted with lurid white blisters, and when Dean looks down he sees that his hands and wrists are the same.

“Shit, Sam,” he says, “Did the cactus-thing do that? Does it hurt? Why didn’t you say something?” Not that he’d even asked if Sam was okay. Fuck. He’s a shitty brother. Sam looks down at his hands, like he hadn’t noticed, the idiot, and then checks his reflection in the chrome napkin dispenser.

“Huh,” he says. Then, “It does kind of sting. Kind of a lot, actually.” Sam’s had this stupid, oblivious stoic streak since Lucifer, like if Dean’s not around to point out, “Oh, by the way, Sam, you’re bleeding out through a huge, gaping wound,” he won’t even notice. But now it’s been brought to his attention he looks like he’s not feeling so good. The bits of his face that aren’t red or blistered go faintly green, which totally completes the alien plague chic look.

“Hang in there a sec,” says Dean, and he heads to the counter and pays for two coffees to go. Breakfast can wait till he’s gotten Sam back to the motel room and made sure that he’s not going to burst open like a pod and seed evil cacti through the galaxy or something. That would suck. He remembers to get a straw for Sam’s coffee and holds it for him while he slurps some down, and Sam looks a bit less green after that, which is probably a good sign. Just nausea, then, not chlorophyll.

“So, Sammy,” he says, when they’re back in the room and Dean’s gotten Sam’s shirt off and made sure that it’s only his hands and face that took damage, and he’s dabbing at the blisters with some holy water/tea tree oil/aloe vera shit, gently, because stoic or not Sam’s a huge girl, really, and those look like they hurt, “D’you think you’re going to burst open like a pod and seed cacti through the galaxy? Feeling that evil within you?”

Then he stops because Sam jerks back and pushes his hands away, and shit, his stupid big mouth. Because Sam still blows streetlights and televisions sometimes, and he dreams about Lucifer, and he wonders, Dean knows he does, about that last, massive dose of demon blood and how he got out and whether it changed him. And sure, it’s Dean’s duty and privilege to torment his kid brother when he’s been taken down by a plant, but suddenly that’s not what this is any more.

“Sorry,” Dean says. “Sorry, man, you know I didn’t mean anything. It was a stupid B-movie joke.”

“It’s okay, I know, no big deal,” Sam says, and he holds his hand back out for Dean to finish, but his face is shuttered and unhappy and his eyes have the look Dean hates, doubt, like he’s not sure he’s back, or he’s not sure he’s Sam.

“Hey,” says Dean, “Hey,” which doesn’t exactly convey his message, so he grips Sam by the back of his neck, where the cactus didn’t get him, and kisses him. Carefully, because his face is all blistered and his eyes have that look. Sam kisses him back, tentative, not their usual vigorous back and forth of control, but the tension eases out of his shoulders, and after a minute he lets Dean push him back onto the bed and trace kisses along his collarbone, the curve of his ribs, the place under his left nipple where his heart beats steady and strong.

Normally Sam is all hands when they do this, grabby bastard, but this time it’s up to Dean. He goes slow, trailing his fingers along Sam’s arms and shoulders, brushing over his nipples, the hollow above his hipbone, teasing just under the waistband of his jeans, following his hands with his lips, recognizing, affirming. Sam’s breathing is fast and deep by the time Dean undoes his jeans and pushes down his boxers, and he makes a small noise, surprised and needy, when Dean licks along his shaft and laps the bitter pre-come from his slit. The salt of each other, perfect circle that keeps them safe. Dean works Sam a while with lips and tongue and the barest edge of teeth, sucking him down and then easing up to swirl his tongue round the head, jacking him slowly at the base with his hand slick with spit.

When Sam is moaning and bucking his hips Dean lets Sam’s cock slip from his mouth. His hand takes over with the hard rhythm and twist of wrist that Sam likes, while his lips retrace their path up torso, chest, shoulders. He ends propped on his elbow by Sam’s head, eyes on Sam’s, wide open while Sam shudders, goes still, and comes, watching Dean. Seeing Dean see him, Sam, just Sam.

Sam smiles, small but genuine, like the message got through, and Dean goes down again to lick the come from his hand and Sam’s belly. Sam cranes his head up off the pillow, watching him.

“My jizz is probably full of mutant cactus spores now,” he says smugly.

“Shut up, bitch,” says Dean. He’s a totally awesome brother. Sam doesn’t deserve him. 


End file.
